


Just The Same

by jackotah



Series: Nothing Made Me [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asperger's Sherlock, Aspie Sherlock, Autistic Sherlock, Bathing/Washing, Coming In Pants, Coming in trousers, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dry Humping, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Johnlock Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Out, POV John Watson, Sensitive Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock, showering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 16:51:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6160190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jackotah/pseuds/jackotah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The tenderness of it all may have seemed uncharacteristic to someone who didn't know better, to see such a calculating and analytical man on his knees with his nose pressed reverently to the softer spots of John's body without shame or awkwardness. John, however, was more than keenly aware that Sherlock did most things differently, but he did every one of them with all of his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just The Same

John straddled Sherlock's lap, his knees nestled between the arms of the chair and Sherlock's thighs. The black trousers beneath him were tented, the erection inside tantalizingly close, and John gently settled down over it, his own bollocks separated from it by mere cloth. Sherlock's eyes dropped down to where their groins met, and John rocked forward experimentally. With a sharp hiss, Sherlock's eyes closed and his head dropped back, his fingers digging into the leather of the chair.

“Good or bad?” John asked into Sherlock's loose collar.

“Good,” Sherlock answered, voice small.

John smiled against his neck. “Do you want me to do it again?”

Sherlock's hands came hesitantly to John's sides, his long fingers stroking down John's ribs and coming to rest on his hips. “Yes,” he whispered, his hands tightening, drawing John down and forward. A soft whimper escaped Sherlock's lips, and John's straining cock throbbed with interest at the sound. He rocked forward again with some urgency, his hands cupping at Sherlock's thrown back head while his mouth found a collar bone to suck on.

“John, I-” Sherlock started before his next words dissolved into a throaty moan. His body seemed to vibrate, and John could feel the hands on his hips begin to tremble.

“We can slow down,” John offered, kissing Sherlock's temple and letting his hands find the man's shoulders, where they squeezed firmly. Sherlock didn't respond. John pressed his face into Sherlock's neck and waited, his hands still massaging the man's shoulders with a heavy pressure.

Slowly, the trembling subsided. “Your chest,” Sherlock said at last, breath tickling at John's scalp. “I- I want...”

Steadying himself on Sherlock's shoulders, John sat up with an affectionate smile. “You like that, yeah?” He brought his left hand up to the top button of his checked shirt and popped it open.

Sherlock's eyes were open again, watching carefully as the faint golden hair on John's chest was steadily revealed. “Very much,” he said lowly, eyes dark and glassy. Before John could undo all the buttons, Sherlock's hands left John's hips to part the shirt, palms smoothing over the pectoral muscles he found there. 

It was John's turn to moan now, and he did- quite loudly- as Sherlock's fingers swirled around his nipples. The fingers pinched slightly, and John gasped, suddenly aware that he was getting closer than he had expected.

Sherlock studied the reaction, his mind surely working furiously, lips parted slightly. After a moment he blinked away and drew his finger nails firmly down John's chest, leaving faint red trails on his skin.

“Fuck,” John cried, the word slipping from him, the sensation overwhelming him entirely. He clutched at Sherlock's shirt as his hips bucked forward involuntarily, seeking more more _more_ contact. Their erections caught against each other, sending pleasure wildly up John' spine to his head, where it tingled over his scalp. His hands found their way to Sherlock's curls, and he felt them pulling at the hair of their own accord. Pulling _hard_.

Sherlock's eyes went suddenly wide, and his hands fell still. “Oh,” he gasped softly, his eyes slammed shut, his body contracting and then shuddering without control. He sucked his lower lip into his mouth, his teeth worrying at it, his mouth wobbling.

John's own mouth fell open at the shock and beauty of it, and his eyes were trained on the man quivering beneath him. Nothing in the world could distract him from that sight. Sherlock's mouth chattered a bit even as his body stilled, and his hands slipped from John's chest, drawing John's eyes down to the glistening wet spot on Sherlock's trousers. There was no mistaking that.

“Oh, god,” John felt himself saying, his own arousal rushing recklessly toward the edge. “You just-”

Sherlock nodded once, swallowing thickly. Even as his eyes closed again, his face looked strangely open. “Sorry. That's... not...”

“No, christ, Sherlock.” John was going to have none of that. “That was bloody hot. You're gorgeous.” He reached out carefully toward one of Sherlock's hands, unsure if his touch would be welcome. He squeezed a bit, and Sherlock didn't pull away. “You've got me so close. Would you-”

Sherlock's eyes shot open as John lifted the hand in his grasp ever so slightly. For a moment, he thought Sherlock was objecting, but the man's eyes darted over him, quickly focusing on the straining bulge of John's jeans. To John's shock, Sherlock lifted his eyes to stare at him, the intensity of the look making John ache for his touch.

“Christ, I could probably come just looking at you.”

Sherlock's mouth quirked up at one side into a small smile, and he studied the obvious bulge again with calculating eyes, though his features were still slackened from pleasure. His fingers twitched, and at last his hand rose to stroke the outline of John's erection visible under the denim. John sucked in a breath at the light contact, resisting the urge to thrust hard into the man's hand. But then in his usual mind-reading manner, Sherlock pressed the heel of his hand firmly against John's erection, sliding it from the bottom to the top in one steady movement and holding. And then John was coming with force, semen spilling into his jeans in a handful of pulses and soaking the fabric beneath Sherlock's fingers as he curled forward, his orgasm washing over him. Heavy with pleasure, he let his head come to rest on Sherlock's shoulder, his breath heating the air trapped between them.

For a few long minutes, they simply held onto one another, hearts skipping and warming in the glow of it all. Breath partially regained and his fading erection still twitching beneath Sherlock's now careful touch, John swallowed. “Are you okay?” he asked, lips moving against the cloth of Sherlock's shirt.

The response was slow, but it did come. “Yes. Though I don't believe you had... _this_ in mind.”

John sat up with a bit of effort and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's forehead. “It's exactly what I wanted. It was... exciting.”

“I had an unexpected orgasm while clothed and that was exciting for you?” Sherlock asked, not sounding critical but entirely curious. 

John glanced down at Sherlock's hand still covering the wet spot on his jeans above his right thigh. His lips quirked into a smile. “A bit, yeah.” He nuzzled at Sherlock's temple, kissed at his eyebrows gently. “Did it feel good?”

Sherlock's eyelashes flickered against John's jaw. “Of course it did.”

John ducked down into the path of Sherlock's gaze. “Then don't be embarrassed, love.” He took up Sherlock's hand and kissed the palm of it before sliding carefully from the chair. His knees protested a bit, but he still bent to press a kiss to the damp front of Sherlock's trousers. “Let me clean you up, and then I'm going to cuddle you whether you like it or not.” 

With a confused expression, Sherlock allowed John to pull him up and toward the bath. “I don't need to be... cuddled,” he said, eyeing John sceptically.

“Of course you don't,” John said, flicking on the bathroom light. He set the temperature of the water precisely, then began undressing, turning back to Sherlock, who was standing awkwardly by the dripping sink. “I thought you might _want_ to be though.”

Sherlock's eyes softened, his brow rising and drawing together in an almost sad expression. With a bit less intensity than usual, he watched as John rolled his shirt from his shoulders, slipped from his jeans and pants, and piled the clothes on the tiled floor. 

John gave him a little smile. “So you're just going to let me stand here starkers while you keep all that on?” He nodded toward Sherlock's whole body, hands on naked hips, his eyes bright.

Sherlock started, glancing down at himself. Cautiously, his eyes rose to trace John's naked body, along the muscle of his chest and shoulders, over his soft belly, down over the line of his hips, across his strong thighs and now soft penis. At last, Sherlock's slender fingers began to work at the buttons of his own shirt even as his eyes continued to study, his face oddly open. Sherlock slid from his shirt and held it in his hand, looking slightly lost. So John tugged at it until it slipped from the man's grasp and then dropped it on top of his own clothes.

He took a moment to check the water temperature, then directed it to the shower head. When he turned back, Sherlock was slipping from his black trousers, exposing fitted grey pants with a large damp patch. John smiled at him encouragingly, but he was unable to keep his eyes from wandering back down to the trail of dark hair disappearing under those pants. At last Sherlock removed them, exposing the full patch of hair surrounding his fairly small soft penis. 

“C'mon, love,” John said, holding out a hand toward him. “Don't want to waste this hot water.”

\-----------

“You can't do that yet,” Sherlock said as John took up the soap. His face looked incredulous as he stared down at John, the mop of curls on his head dripping steadily onto his pale shoulders.

“Er, okay,” John replied and replaced the soap on the tiny shelf. “What's first then?” He looked up at Sherlock expectantly and was rewarded with a spray of water straight to the face as Sherlock moved aside to reach for something. After a moment, he turned back with their shampoo bottles in hand and once again blocked the spray of water with his much taller body. John smiled down at them as he wiped the water from his eyes, finding the contrast of the store brand and high end product rather amusing. He took the black bottle and coaxed Sherlock to the other end of the shower.

“You're first.”

It only took a few seconds of having his hair washed before Sherlock began to go weak in the knees, grasping for the tiny soap shelf and letting out soft whimpers as John's fingers worked through his curls. John smiled to himself. _I've made Sherlock Holmes whimper twice in one evening_. Apparently his miltary-style bathing techniques were enough to melt Sherlock and send him slipping away down the drain.

“You're too much, you know that?” John asked when he was finished, tugging him backwards to rinse away the soap.

“Mmmm, you chose me,” Sherlock murmured, tilting his head back to assure no water or soap got on his face.

John leaned against the tiled wall behind the spray of water, smiling softly at the bubbles sliding down Sherlock's back and over the plump cheeks below. “I did,” he agreed, reaching out to smear some of the bubbles back up Sherlock's spine. Sherlock gasped, his fingers tightening around his hair in surprise. “You're alright,” John soothed, pressing his palm between the two protruding shoulder blades.

Sherlock's fingers loosened and returned to their thorough rinsing. After a moment, “I'm sorry. That I'm so-”

“Nope,” John said gently, sliding his hands to Sherlock's sides. He pressed his forehead to Sherlock's back, heedless of the water and last bits of soap against his face. “We're not apologizing for things like that.” Sherlock's hands slipped away from his hair and came to dangle again at his sides.

“Am I allowed to wash your hair?” Sherlock asked at last, the question sounding distant in the tiled space and slightly muffled to John's ears.

John gave him a gentle squeeze and pulled out from under the water. “If you like.”

The smile that Sherlock gave him was genuine, full of lines and chins, and the squinted eyes at the top looked down at John with such affection that he couldn't help but blush and duck his head, a smile forming on his own lips. He handed Sherlock the shampoo as he stepped to the far end of the shower.

“No,” Sherlock corrected, tugging him back and adjusting the shower head on the bar so the water hit John's back and shoulders. They were facing each other, and John cocked an eyebrow in confusion but didn't object. The water was still just this side of too hot, though he knew it wouldn't last for long, and it did feel nice. Sherlock fiddled with the shampoo a moment, placing a precise amount into his palm, and then his eyes flicked straight down to John's. Deft fingers slid into John's hair shortly after, nails gently scratching his scalp, and John swallowed hard, his eyes blinking rapidly but never leaving Sherlock's. Those pale eyes held all their usually intensity, and the fingers were massaging then, lathering his hair but drifting to press just so around the back of his head. They alternated between long strokes and small circles, working the base of his skull and up around to his temples, sending pleasure tingling through John's scalp and down his neck. The grey-green eyes never looked away, and it occurred to John then that they were very close. So close he could see his tiny reflection in the gloss of those eyes. No, John was not uncomfortable. He was overwhelmed. His own eyes pricked despite his wishes. Did it count as crying if you were in the shower? No. He would not cry over having his bloody _hair_ washed. A sniff escaped him before he could catch it, and he swallowed thickly.

And then Sherlock was pulling John in, holding him tight against his own chest and cupping lovingly at the back of his head. His mouth nuzzled at John's hair despite the soap. “You know that I love you, yes?” John could feel the rumble of Sherlock's voice against his face. “Please tell me that you know.”

John nodded into Sherlock's collarbone then kissed at it. “I know,” he assured him. “I love you too. Always have. I just couldn't- I didn't know how...”

It didn't seem possible, but Sherlock wrapped around him even tighter, as though he might hold the pieces of John together by sheer will.

When at last they pulled apart, if only by mere centimetres, Sherlock's face was covered in white bubbles, and the laugh that John let out felt raw but joyful. He reached up to Sherlock's jaw and shaped the foamy bubbles a bit, adding some extra from his own hair, and Sherlock glanced down at himself curiously.

“How very Father Christmas of me,” he chuckled at last, eyes bright.

John shook his head. “No, too skinny.” He let his hands slide around Sherlock's ribs, his thumbs smoothing over the last ones and out over his belly. “Maybe you're more of a Gandalf.”

Sherlock's lips twitched into a smile as he reached back for the the shower head. “Not nearly kind or wise enough for that, I don't think.” With great care, he began to rinse the shampoo from John's hair.

John tilted his head back, and let his eyes close. “You're plenty kind, to those who need it. And you are getting up there in years.” He cracked an eye carefully and laughed at the incredulous look he found on Sherlock's face. "I'm only joking, Sherlock."

The expression slid away, and Sherlock winked at him as he replaced the shower head. In the next moment he had taken up the bar of soap and was tugging John away from the stream of water.

For all their kissing and bed sharing, this was in fact the first time they were privy to the entirety of each others bodies, and Sherlock wasted no time familiarising himself with the previously uncharted areas of John. It was unlike any other experience, being studied and washed by Sherlock Holmes. Hardly a centimetre was left untouched, and, as if to mark his favourites, Sherlock's lips pressed small kisses throughout, paying special attention to John's chest and belly. The tenderness of it all may have seemed uncharacteristic to someone who didn't know better, to see such a calculating and analytical man on his knees with his nose pressed reverently to the softer spots of John's body without shame or awkwardness. John, however, was more than keenly aware that Sherlock did most things differently, but he did every one of them with all of his heart. It was incredibly loving, and while he was quite certain he would fall miserably short, John endeavoured to make Sherlock feel just as loved. John smiled to himself. _He'd call me a sentimental fool, but he's just the same._

When he had rinsed again and the soap had been exchanged, John began to wash Sherlock's smooth chest with an even pressure, his hands working in steady circles and bringing the lather to life. Beneath his simple touch, Sherlock's heart pounded, though he showed no outward signs of stress.

“Alright?” John murmured, continuing to smooth the lather over his bony shoulders.

“I am unaccustomed to being touched-” Sherlock bit off the end of his sentence, and John's mind couldn't help but try to finish it. _On my chest? By you? Kindly? Lovingly?_

“You're gorgeous, Sherlock,” he hummed, trying to sound soothing and encouraging as he washed the length of one arm then began on the other. “Strong but elegant.” He let his hands slide down Sherlock's sides to his belly. “Soft in all the right places.” Hands hovering around Sherlock's navel, John considered what to do next. “How about your back then?” he suggested, noting the tension still present, and coaxed him into turning around. With the entirety of Sherlock's long back before him, John set to work, first with a cursory wash, then with a surely amateur but well intentioned massage. The muscle of Sherlock's back and shoulders was littered with knots, so many that it seemed at first inspection that it was all one giant trigger point. 

“Are you in pain?” John asked quietly, knowing the answer even as he spoke.

Sherlock had his forehead pressed to the blue tiled wall. “I don't know,” he said simply, as if no such thought had ever occurred to him. “It is a... difficult sensation to identify.”

Without realizing it, John's fingertips had drifted to the scar on Sherlock's side. It had healed nicely despite Sherlock being an entirely awful patient, though the skin was still slightly raised and a pale pink. With time, it would fade. John brought his hand back up to the knotted trapezius and worked at it a bit more, pressing firmly and then smoothing his hands out over the length of the muscle.

“If you were hurting, would you tell me?” John slid his hands further down until he was stroking the soft swell of Sherlock's bum.

“I would imagine so, if it were severe enough to warrant your expertise. You did make me promise.”

“And if it weren't? Would you suffer in silence?”

This gave Sherlock pause. “You're incredibly dramatic about an entirely hypothetical situation,” he said at last.

John chuckled, now fully massaging Sherlock's cheeks. “I'm a doctor. I'm not a fan of people being in pain. Particularly those that I love.” John stroked at the soft skin just at the cleft of Sherlock's arse, waiting for a retort of some kind. To his surprise, he received none, and so he took the opportunity to ask in a gentle tone, “Can I do this for you?” He traced a soapy finger just slightly lower, indicating his intentions.

“Yes.” Then lower, “Thank you.”

John slipped an arm around Sherlock's waist and spread a hand across his ribs while the other worked the lather between Sherlock's legs. It was surreal to be feeling him like this, to have one hand over his pounding heart and the other pressed to so intimate an area. John tried to focus on keeping his fingertips out of the equation, lest he imply intent of unwelcome penetration, and smoothed the lather forward to Sherlock's perineum and back again.

“Alright,” John said when he was finished. “Give us a spin and let's get the rest before this water goes entirely cold.”

Sherlock did as requested with a slightly distant expression and revealed to John a somewhat weak but still obvious erection. 

John smiled up at the younger man. “Aren't you speedy,” he remarked, a look of mirth on his face. He began to soap his hands again. “May I?”

Sherlock nodded once, then whispered, “Firmly though. Please. Not lightly.”

John gave him a little nod. “I can do that.” And then his hands were working the soap into the thicket of dark hair over Sherlock's pubic bone and washing away the evidence of their earlier encounter. Sherlock's small erection gave a bit of bounce at the touch, and his face grew even paler as John took him firmly but somehow chastely in hand. It was short, enough to fill John's hand and no more, but thicker and entirely unlike the rest of his long body. “Always an overachiever,” John said with good humour. With one hand he nudged comically at his own flaccid penis, drawing Sherlock's eyes down. “Don't suppose you'll have to deal with this in a few years.”

“John,” Sherlock began, tense but trying to speak steadily. “You should know for a man your age it is perfectly normal after an intense orgasm to have a refractory period of nearly an hour. I don't have enough data, but nothing leads me to believe you are in any way outside of normal range. I'm perfectly satisfied and in no way upset about this.”

John slid his hands down over the man's bollocks and into the creases of his thighs, peering up at him with amused eyes. “That's sweet. In a Sherlock sort of way. Thank you.” Some of the colour returned to Sherlock's face at being called 'sweet,' though he made no attempt to claim his intention had been anything but kindness.

By the time John had finished with Sherlock's legs and intensely ticklish feet, the water truly was cold, and they were more than happy to to turn it off and bundle into their towels to dry before slipping into the bedroom.

“What?” Sherlock asked, studying John who was waiting expectantly under the duvet.

“I promised you a really good cuddle, and I intend to follow through.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but as he bent forward to step into a clean pair of pants, a smile twitched onto his face. “You only promised a cuddle, not a good one. Don't exaggerate.”

John snorted. “All of my cuddles are good ones. Brilliant quality control.”

And then Sherlock was crawling across the bed to him and burying his face into John's shoulder with a sigh of relief. John turned onto his side a bit and drew Sherlock in with a strong arm and a leg around the back of his thighs. As he nuzzled into Sherlock's damp curls, he began to stroke his back through his t-shirt, from neck to bum and back again. The steady rhythm had Sherlock heavy and snoring against him in minutes, and the last thing John remembered as he slipped off into sleep was Sherlock's hot breath against his skin.

**Author's Note:**

> Woops this took forever because it got a bit longer than I intended. Currently a bit swamped a working on a [Daredevil thing](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7594480) and also here's [some gay Star Trek](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7855477) since some of you fellow Johnlock people are into that ;)


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